


Burden of Proof

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Related, M/M, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-12 07:24:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7091440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis counts all the new scars Porthos' gotten over the years. (Coda fic for 3x01)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burden of Proof

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on tumblr for the prompt, "Aramis catching up on all the new scars Porthos has after four years at war"  
> There's one part here that references something from 3x03, but it's very blink and you'll miss it - and I imagine easy to miss if you don't know what you're looking for.

“And this one?” Aramis asks, sliding his hand down along a thin, faded scar at his bicep. 

It’s quiet, nestled back in Paris – Porthos’ own room left for him, dusty and musty, but still too much like home to be unwelcomed. Aramis touches the scar. The candle on the table flickers its light from the night breeze wisping in, an attempt to air out a stale room untouched for years. It feels like coming home. That he can have this, at least, is enough for Aramis – he knows things cannot be the same again, likely, but they can be somewhat as they were. That Porthos would let him touch him like this must be enough. 

Porthos twists his head a bit to get a good look at the scar Aramis is touching. He shrugs his other shoulder. “Early in the war, before we got any armor. Took a pike to the arm.” 

Something must splinter on his face because Porthos frowns, shifts slightly. 

“We don’t have to talk about these,” he says, likely meant to assuage nerves for Aramis, but the idea of covering Porthos up is painful. To pretend that Porthos is not covered in scars. Scars shaped by someone who is not Aramis. 

Aramis brushes his fingers over the scar, tracing it along its straight-edge. It’s mostly faded now. Whoever sewed him up did a good job of it. He hopes it didn’t hurt him too much. 

“I want to see,” he says, quietly. He touches this one. “They should have known to keep watch at your back,” he says, thinking of d’Artagnan and Athos with a twisted mouth. “And they—”

“They learned,” Porthos interrupts. The words are not harsh, but there’s a weight to it. An unspoken understanding – that had always been Aramis’ job; they had always watched one another’s backs. Once, years ago now. 

“… Of course,” Aramis says, chastened and hushed. 

Porthos looks down, heaving out a sigh. There are others like these. A few on his hands, from recruits mishandling swords. One on the spot along his collarbone, from a lucky Spanish sword. Some on his back, criss-crossing over the largest scar from an axe-wound years and years ago. One on his thigh, which Porthos does not show him and only tells him about, a musketball injury from two years ago. 

He touches one at Porthos’ belly. It’s large and jagged and obviously did not heal well or properly or speedily. Aramis makes a soft sound, seeing it. He touches at it, feels the shift of Porthos’ breath beneath him. It stretches from the middle of his stomach up towards one of his ribs. A killing blow, in the right hands. 

The other scars are something else – indications of battle. Porthos has always gotten injuries, has almost always had Aramis there to sew him back up again. Or another comrade. They are marks of fighting, of surviving, of persevering. They are battle wounds, the same as they all have. 

But this one—

A lead weight drags Aramis’ heart down into his stomach. This one, large and crooked and painful-looking – this is not indication of fighting and survival, this is testament to a life almost lost. Aramis does not realize his hands have begun to shake until Porthos closes one hand around his, curls his fingers, holds him steady. 

“What happened?” Aramis asks, almost afraid to know, afraid of the story that will reveal a moment Aramis was not there. 

Porthos nods, slowly, looking down at their hands rather than at Aramis. “I got captured. They wanted information, and I wouldn’t give it to them.” 

Aramis’ body shakes. He shifts closer. He fans his free hand out over the scar, tracing each jagged, angry red edge of it. His other hand clenches tight around Porthos’, who steadily strings their fingers together, lacing them. It is a gentle movement but Aramis can’t breathe, can only feel desperate. 

Aramis breathes out shakily. He cannot regret his decision, his vow, and he never could – but he regrets this, regrets being unable to protect Porthos, regrets these holes in their time together – stories that Aramis will only ever hear as stories, never live with him. Aramis knows, deep down in his heart, that he could never have survived war, not after everything – but this—

“Porthos,” he says, hushed. 

Porthos squeezes his hand. In this moment, he is not angry with him, he is not distant, he is not still trying to understand and accept. In this moment, he is only trying to comfort.

He lifts Aramis’ hand, kisses his knuckles. 

“I’m alright,” he tells him, and even though it is obvious – he is right here before him – Aramis still breathes out a shaky breath of relief, involuntary tears pressing at the backs of his eyes, threatening to spill. Porthos says, “Athos and d’Artagnan got me out. I’m alright. I’m alive.” 

Even like this, years later, Porthos knows what Aramis does not say – knows what to say to make Aramis breathe again. Aramis slumps forward, presses his forehead to Porthos’ shoulder. Feels Porthos shift, feels his cheek press against his head, the tiniest little nuzzle into his hair, the hush of his breath down his neck. He doesn’t let go of Aramis’ hand and so Aramis does not let go, either, pressing himself into Porthos’ space. 

He clenches his eyes shut. Tries to say, _I’ll always have your back now –_ but feels he cannot, feels he has no right to say it now. No, but d’Artagnan and Athos have his back, at least. Aramis will earn his place again. He will prove himself again.

He touches the scar, proof of pain, proof of almost-death. Proof that, in another world, in another time, Aramis might have lost Porthos and never realized until years too late. Surely he would have felt it. Surely, even far away from them, he would have known if Porthos fell. Surely such an event could not go unmarked by the universe, by God. 

His breath hiccups, and he clenches Porthos’ hand. 

“I’m alive,” Porthos reminds him, steady and calm. Porthos always knew, always knew what sorts of ghosts these things dredge up, what sorts of fears. Must know, deep down, why Aramis had to leave in the first place. 

“Yes,” Aramis whispers. Thinks, _Thank God,_ and does not say it. He draws back, offers Porthos a watery smile.

Porthos smiles back, leans forward, and Aramis’ expression flickers – the smallest drop of disappointment when Porthos only kisses his forehead. All the same, he closes his eyes, lets himself feel it, memorize it, remember it. 

“… It’s beautiful,” he says, touches at the scar. All of Porthos’ scars are beautiful. Aramis has always thought so. The body’s burdening proof of life. That Porthos, despite all odds, has always found a way back to him again. 

Porthos chuffs a laugh and Aramis offers him a shaky smile. Lifts his hand. Touches his cheek. Fans his thumb along that familiar scar above his eye – one of the first ones Aramis ever stitched up for him. Thinks, he’ll do everything he can, to always protect this man. No matter what.


End file.
